


Dancing with Fire

by Androktones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom!Cullen, Dom/sub, F/M, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Party, Post-Game(s), Romance, Spanking, Teasing, sub!Trevelyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-26
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Androktones/pseuds/Androktones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisition holds a grand ball at Skyhold to celebrate the victory over Corypheus at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and, after an evening featuring plenty of shenanigans from party members and heavy flirting between Lady Trevelyan and Cullen, the couple steals away to the Chantry chapel to enjoy themselves in their own -particular- style. Chapter Four will change rating to a hard M. </p><p>Crossposted on tumblr and ff.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrashingStar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashingStar/gifts).



**Dancing with Fire  
**

**Chapter One:**

When they make it back to Skyhold after the defeat of Corypheus, all Inquisitor Trevelyan _really_ wants, more than to sleep for a full eight hours for the first time in a long time, more than to share a pint with her friends, more than even to climb into bed with Cullen and not leave for a week (which is _really_ saying something), is a _bath_.

A single pot of water warmed over a campfire three days’ after their most recent sojourn to the Temple of Sacred Ashes seems to have made only the barest dent in the layers of grime she feels like she’s been collecting for more than a year, and she is _still_ finding bits of blood and grit in her hair. Her nails are ragged, black with soot and dirt and she is certain she stinks of ashes and sweat and horse…

Cullen doesn’t seem to mind, though, when he presses her to his chest, murmurs, “Thank the Maker,” and his lips just whisper over her brow. Her sword arm, which is stiff as a board despite Dorian and Vivienne’s best efforts, hurts a little less now.

And Leliana’s spies have found neither hide nor hair of Solas, and there are rifts yet to close and plenty of bandits and brigands to fell, but she manages a short speech to the assembled crowd before she designates Iron Bull as the commander of tonight’s revelry – Sera whoops in joy and Bull says “damn right” and most of the rabble and half her companions, too, make off for the tavern, but Josephine and Vivienne look positively _scandalized_.

“Inquisitor, is that really wise? We need -”

She manages a smile in response. “A _real_ party, a party worthy of the occasion, will take a few weeks to prepare. For tonight, let them get properly pissed. Josephine, I’m placing you in charge, with whatever you need at your disposal. Madame de Fer, I would appreciate it if you would help me find proper attire for the occasion. Now that the threat is vanquished, we find ourselves in a somewhat precarious position: powerful, but without direct application. We’ll need to prove our worth in a world without Corypheus, and this offers the perfect occasion to at least display that we’re better for more than hitting demons with large and pointy objects.”

They both look positively gobsmacked, and she quirks her lips as she points to her chest. “Trevelyan, remember? Minor noble, but noble nonetheless, and I’ve learned the value of appearances from you two. But now if you’ll please excuse me, I will positively _murder_ something if I don’t get a bath.”

And Josephine is _beaming_ as she begins furiously scribbling a to-do list, and Vivienne nods approvingly, calling out “most excellent taste, dear” as the Inquisitor finally makes it to the stairs leading to her chambers.

It is only after the door closes behind her with an audible click that she exhales deeply and wonders, _what have I gotten myself into?_

\------

When Cullen pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the courtyard, a week or so after the Inquisitor’s return, he spies Sera furiously scribbling something on the notice board. He’s running late (damn Inquisitors and the frankly adorable way they stretch in the morning which necessitates pulling them back into bed), but he stops on his way to meet up with the Requisitions officer to see what the Dalish woman has done. It takes only a moment, however, for him to see that Sera is hardly the only person who has found it necessary to ‘edit’ the document pinned to the wood.

Written in Josephine’s immaculate hand is the following:

_Rules for the Victory Ball_

  1. _Proper attire will be required_ (Varric has written below this “is chest hair appropriate?” and in Vivienne’s silver ink is a large “NO.”)
  2. _Certain topics of conversation are off limits- no politics, religion, lewd jokes._ (Iron Bull’s block print this time, “what can we talk about? Weather?!” and in Dorian’s square, tidy letters “the weather has improved since the Rift closed…”)
  3. _No weapons, either magical or mundane, including but not limited to crossbows, daggers, staffs, bows, greatswords, axes._ (To the side Sera has drawn a picture of a jar labeled “bees”, and in Leliana’s flowing script, “no poison listed? For shame, Josie.”)
  4. _No excessive drunkenness_ (Iron Bull’s hand: “define ‘excessive.’”)
  5. _No fighting_ (Iron Bull again, “then what do we do?” and Cassandra has written neatly, “Sit. Eat. Drink. Dance. Then go to the tavern.” And Varric, probably just to annoy Cassandra, has squeezed in “Dance? Dwarves don’t dance, and neither does Curly.” Sera has drawn a figure that Cullen _thinks_ is supposed to be him if the hair is any indication, with an arrow pointing to each foot labeled “left.”)



Josephine approaches the board, picking her way delicately around the puddles on the ground. Coming to stand beside him, she glances at the board and sighs heavily, pulling the parchment off the wall.

“Why do I even _try_?”

\------

The evening of the party arrives, and the Inquisitor makes a last pass through the Great Hall to check on the preparations; it isn’t strictly necessary, she knows, since Josephine has thrown herself into the ball with her usual aplomb, and Vivienne and Leliana have been offering advice as well. Varric wasn’t particularly pleased with being evicted in order to allow for the myriad of deliveries, but she’s promised him an interview for his next book and instructed the bartender at Herald’s Rest to put whatever he orders on her tab to soothe the dwarf’s bruised pride.  

Hundreds of tiny candles are strewn across the tables and flickering in the wall sconces, and the cooks bustle between the kitchen and the hall with trays of food and drink. The air is redolent with spices and flowers, and the Inquisitor truly believes that if her mother had been able to make it here from Ostwick in time, she would be proud.

“Inquisitor!”

Josephine stands near the throne, watching as workers set up chairs and tables. Clipboard in hand, she waves Trevelyan over.

“I’m so glad you’re here! Tell me, should we have the flowers as centerpieces, or place them on the buffet tables instead?”

The Inquisitor smiles and replies, “I cede to your impeccable taste in this matter, Lady Montilyet.”

The Antivan woman’s eyes crinkle in mirth when she says, “what a diplomatic way of saying you don’t care!”

“I learned diplomacy from the best.”

“Indeed you did.”

And then she is off in a rush of golden silk to berate the musicians who are setting up their stands, because _that is where the drink selection is going,_ and _they are supposed to set up above the dance floor_ and _what were the Fereldan caterers_ thinking _, not doubling the cheese order, don’t they know the King is attending?_

The Inquisitor, satisfied that things are proceeding as well as possible and fully aware that the longer she stays here, the more likely she is to get roped in to something she has no real interest in doing, starts towards the library to pester Dorian. On the way she passes Vivienne leading a courier towards her chambers, the latter bearing the Inquisitor’s gown, and _Maker_ she hopes he doesn’t step on the garment bag, or she is fairly confident she will end up with a frozen Orlesian delivery boy as a centerpiece instead of flowers. 

But before she reaches the door to the rotunda, Cullen enters the hall, and Maker help her she can’t stop the way her heart lurches in her chest at just the sight of him. His eyes meet hers and he smiles as she makes her way towards him, Dorian forgotten for the moment.

“Are things going well, my love?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose. Josephine is _terrifying_ when she’s planning a party.”

He chuckles and replies, “I can imagine. The King and Queen have arrived; Leliana is showing them to their rooms.”

“Wonderful. And Sera?”

“Won’t be a problem, at least for now. I slipped Iron Bull a few sovereigns to take her out to clear some caves, keep her out of trouble.”

“You are so brilliant. Mia?”

The way his eyes go soft and warm when she asks about his sister makes her feel tingly; he is a good man, and he is her man, and she is so very lucky.

“They arrived about an hour ago. She and the children were in the stables when I left to check on you. Blackwall carved Thomas a whistle, and Dennett’s leading them on pony rides around the courtyard. I don’t think they will ever want to leave.”

“Perfect,” she replies, and he smiles tenderly in response.

“They can’t wait to meet you. Mia will pry, I’m sure, but the boys just want to hear about killing dragons. Cassandra’s already exhausted her store of tales.”

He reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, and she leans into his palm, warm even through the leather of his gloves, pressing closer to him, lips parted for a kiss and-

“Inquisitor, darling, you need to come upstairs. As dashing as the commander is, the ball is swiftly approaching, and we need to get started on your hair.”

She sighs, and settles for pecking him quickly on the cheek.

“Remind me again why I proposed this?”

He grins. “From what I recall, we are attempting to prove that the Inquisition remains useful in a world without Corypheus, and to further cement your role.”

“I hate politics.”

Laughing he says, “I know, dearest,” and she can’t help the shiver that runs up her spine when his lips brush against her knuckles and he whispers, “Until tonight.”

\------


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter 2**

“Not much for parties?”

Dorian looks dashing as always, leaning against the railing in a wine-colored velvet waistcoat, belted with a wide amber sash. He has the delicate stem of a champagne flute between the fingers of his left hand, and he offers another to Cullen with his right, who takes it cautiously. How the man managed to hold something so thin without snapping it…

“I’m afraid I’m quite inexperienced in this regard,” he manages, taking a sip of the effervescent liquid and finding it refreshing. Dorian doesn’t need to know about the night before Cullen took his vows, when he and three of the other recruits drank four whole handles of Antivan brandy. He’d vomited in a potted plant outside the Chantry door. Or the summer solstice festival in Honnleath when he was thirteen; Mia had traded the tavern keeper’s son a kiss for some ale, and Cullen had passed out in a haystack.

The Tevinter mage smiles, takes a languid sip of champagne. “But you attended the ball at Halamshiral. Did you not find it enjoyable?”

“Which part? The attempted assassination of an Empress, the gossip, or the nobles who kept pinching my ass?”

“I was thinking in fact about the dance with your lovely Inquisitor on the balcony; it must be said, however, that your rear end did look quite fetching in parade dress.”

Cullen colors, but laughs. Dorian drains his champagne glass and places it on a serving tray as a waitress passes by, plucks up another.

“The Winter Palace had its merits,” Cullen acknowledges, drinking the rest of his glass, too, and placing it aside, “but I am hoping tonight will involve much less intrigue and violence.”

“In Tevinter we’d already be on our third murder,” Dorian replies, smiling. He looks to the floor below, where the Iron Bull is holding court with the Chargers.

“So things with Bull are…” Cullen stops, doesn’t really know why he brought it up in the first place. _Must be the champagne_.

“Good,” Dorian says, and just to see him blush, “ _very_ good. He does this _thing_ with his-”

“Oh Sweet Andraste! I can’t _know_ that,” Cullen splutters, reeling, and when another tray of drinks comes by, wine this time, he grasps at one blindly, takes a long drink.

“Suit yourself,” Dorian shrugs, “but if you ever need any ideas, just let me know. She is dear to me, your love. Perhaps the truest friend that I have ever had, and well, you know, I just want to make sure she’s _satisfied_ …”

“Satisfied? Maker, there isn’t enough wine…wait, has she said something?!”

Dorian- _the_ _nerve_ \- just winks and says, “For me to know, Commander. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see a situation which requires my attention.”

And then he is traipsing insouciantly down the stairs, towards Bull and Sera, who are going shot for shot with a jug of Maraas Lok. And Cullen hopesthat Dorian is going to make them stop, or at least slow down, because there are plenty of nobles here, and the last thing they need is Sera deciding someone needs to be drenched in a bucket of water, or druffalo blood, or sit on a whoopee cushion or-

And somehow his wine glass is empty again. Blast. What if she _isn’t_ satisfied? He’s no Lothario, certainly, hasn’t done many of the stranger things that his fellow Templars would mention when they (never him) returned from the Blooming Rose in Kirkwall, but he’s not entirely without _passion,_ or creativity…

He picks up another glass of wine on his way down the stairs.

* * *

 

“ _Do_ be still, darling.”

And Vivienne _pulls_ and the lacings of the corset Trevelyan’s been poured into go taut.

“ _Maferath’s balls._ How am I supposed to _breathe_?”

She casts a plaintive eye to Cassandra, who is watching the proceedings with disdain and thinly-veiled amusement from the couch. The dark-haired woman’s reuse of their formal attire from Halamshiral is looking better and better all the time.

“Please,” the Inquisitor gasps, “find a dragon, a troll, a Tevinter magister-darkspawn hybrid who wants to end the world! I’ll take them over this any day. Where is Sera? She’ll find something I can hit.”

Josephine, who is setting out the jewelry the Inquisitor will wear for the evening, smirks and says, “Sera said that she would, and I quote, ‘rather go bobbing for apples in a privy than be part of a getting-done-up-fancy-pants girls night.’ The last I heard she had stolen Cole’s hat and was stashing dirty drawings in people’s overcoats.”

“I _knew_ she’d have more fun than me,” the Inquisitor grouses as Leliana holds up a necklace, considers it against the other woman’s throat, and puts it down for another choice.  

Vivienne says, “oh hush,” and pulls the laces even tighter as she continues, “you are of a noble house, Inquisitor, this should hardly be new to you.”

“I am the youngest of four daughters, Vivienne, and my parents could not afford a dowry for me, nobles or no. By the time I would have been attending balls, they had decided I would join the Chantry. Andraste’s Ass! Sorry. Now I know why Cosette was always so wretchedly grumpy when she was wearing one of these things!”

Vivienne doesn’t reply, but she does let the lacings slacken just a bit before tying them off with an elaborate knot. Josephine supplies the Inquisitor with a glass of champagne, which she gulps down, and Leliana’s laugh as she refills the flute is as delicate as the crystal glass.

And then Josephine is kneeling before Trevelyan, fastening delicate ribbons from the contraption at her waist to the tops of her stockings. Her smile is sharp as a knife blade as she casts a glance up and notes, “the commander is going to _die_.”

“If I don’t die first,” Trevelyan replies, taking another long sip of her champagne. In the full-length mirror, she must admit that while she won’t be incorporating a corset into her daily attire, the effect is quite lovely. Her waist curves gracefully in an exaggerated arc from breast to hip thanks to the boning – she’s shapely without it, but built for fighting – and her breasts, made more copious both by the garment’s support and the contrast with her waist, peek from the top almost indecently. She isn’t hoping Cullen will _die_ , per se, but she _is_ hoping he’ll like it.

When Josephine, Leliana and Vivienne disappear into the closet to retrieve the dress, Cassandra saunters to where the Inquisitor stands.

“Here,” she whispers, holding out a flask. “I’ve been stuffed in a gown or two in Nevarra, and a stiff drink is about the best way I have found to manage with feeling like a sausage.”

“Oh, Cassandra, you are going to make a _most_ excellent Divine,” she whispers back conspiratorially, taking a long pull from the silver container. The heat shoots straight to her stomach before twining out and suffusing her limbs and suddenly she feels much more relaxed.

Her friend smiles and slips the flask back into her jacket, patting the pocket where it lies. “Let me know if you need another.”

Leliana, Josephine and Vivienne enter again, bearing the dress, before Leliana departs down the stairs to check on the guests. With help Trevelyan manages to get the gown over her head without popping out of the corset or falling over. As Cassandra begins to lace up the back, Josephine exclaims with glee, “ _gorgeous_ ,” and Vivienne replies, “I told you I have _excellent_ taste.”

* * *

 

“Commander,” Leliana says, smiling, as she sweeps into the ballroom. Her dress is a rich deep green, edged in sable, with black petticoats. She looks somehow younger than before, as if the lines of worry around her eyes have eased. Cullen thinks he even heard her humming a few days ago. The emeralds at her throat and dangling in her ears twinkle in the candlelight, catch the fire roaring in the great hearth.

“Milady,” he says warmly in reply, sketching a brief bow which earns him a laugh (he can count on one hand how many times he’s heard her laugh).

“I am not your lady,” she says as she lays a hand in its’ black lace glove ever so lightly in the crook of his arm and they proceed further into the Great Hall, “though I have just left her chambers.”

She must have seen his brow crease in worry because she giggles and says, “Fear not, brave knight! She is just having the last of her accoutrementsapplied. ‘Gilding the Lily,’ some call it, when you apply trappings to one already so lovely…”

And then she grins, and tightens her arm, drawing him in closer as she whispers, “though _oh_ the trappings! You’ve never seen her in a corset, have you, Cullen?”

Suddenly the room is far too warm, and he coughs into his closed fist as Leliana removes her arm from his to lean over the table heavily laden with fruit and cheese.

“I see King Alistair has already made a pass by,” she murmurs, noting how many of the cheeses are missing large chunks. Daintily spearing a grape and popping it into her mouth, she straightens and places her hand on Cullen’s elbow again, turning them back towards the crowd, where he spies Blackwall, clearly uncomfortable as Josephine’s sister presses closer, chattering.

“The corset is from Orlais, of course, but the garter is an Antivan invention…”

He looks beside him, stricken, only to see Leliana standing placidly, sipping lightly on her champagne.

Cullen takes a gulp of wine and forces out, “garter?”

“Hmm? Oh yes. Lovely bits of lace which attach the stockings to the belt…” she pauses here, inclining her head to Marquise Briala as the elven woman, chatting with the newly-emerged Vivienne, passes by in a cloud of Orlesian perfume. When she is satisfied that they are out of earshot Leliana continues, “Delicate and, if one removes the smalls, they can keep the stockings up while engaging in a variety of pleasurable activities. Orlesians consider themselves experts on most things, but even they must acknowledge that there is something to be said for Antivan advancements in lingerie.”

She takes another drink of her champagne, smiling behind the rim and Cullen is _sure_ his face is a darker red than Leliana’s hair. But then the Queen and Commander of the Grey Wardens is waving at the Spymaster from her seat beside her husband, who is currently making shadow puppets on the wall for the benefit of the children clustered around him, including Cullen’s nephews. Leliana smiles and whispers, “She’s pregnant. I got a raven from her a month ago confirming the news.”

And then she pats his arm and leans in close, so close Cullen can smell the perfume she wears, Andraste’s Grace. “Commander, _do_ refrain from ripping her dress. The garter and corset, however, can be easily replaced.”

She floats away and he is left standing there, agape, wondering _when_ exactly everyone decided that his relationship with the Inquisitor was the most fun to be had while wearing smallclothes…or garters. Andraste’s ashes, she’s wearing _garters_?

Blast it.

And then a bell peals, and Josephine emerges from the Inquisitor’s chamber. She is dressed in the Antivan style, with a kirtle of amethyst and her hair braided loosely over one shoulder, the heavy golden chain absent and replaced by a glittering choker. Cullen doesn’t even need to look to see Blackwall’s expression. The music stills as Josephine says liltingly, “Kings and Queens, Lords and Ladies, Warriors and Mages and Rogues! May I present to you your hostess, the Inquisitor, Lady Trevelyan!”

And a murmur ripples through the crowd and then the rafters are shaking with cheers (he can just make out Sera hollering “You look so _hot_ , Inquissy-pants!”), and Maker take them all he can’t _see_ her from where he stands by the hearth.  

Then the crowd parts to allow the Inquisitor into the Great Hall, and…

_Sweet Maker_.

Cullen sweeps his eyes from the floor up, and his breath catches at the mere sight of her. Her gown is a beautiful pearl white, and flames wrought in golden thread climb from the hem of the full skirt towards her delicate waist, as if she is Andraste herself, aflame but untouched. The neckline of the gown dips wide and low, exposing the pale swathe of skin across her shoulders and down to the full curve of her breasts. Delicate gold filigree earrings, sparkling with tiny crystals, dangle from her ears. Diamond pins hold her hair up and away from the graceful arc of her neck, and a few tendrils lie upon her collarbones. She is… _radiant_ , and it is all he can do not to stride across the floor and kiss her breathless, guests be damned.

And the crowd closes around her as everyone grapples for the Inquisitor’s attention, with noblemen kissing her hand and women complimenting her taste and he can only see a glimpse of her dress, a bit of spangled light from her hair.

Cullen picks up another glass of wine.

It is going to be a long evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews make me very happy!


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

 

Over the course of the past year and a half or so, the Inquisitor has become used to being the center of attention. To be fair, it was not as if she was given much choice in the matter. The Mark which bisects her palm, quiet now, suddenly altered her importance; she found herself weighted down with her own significance. People looked to her for leadership, faith, _hope_ – and more than once to find a lost farm animal or two.

Tonight is different.

The gasp that sweeps through the Grand Hall when Josephine announces her bears only the slightest resemblance to her entrance at Halamshiral. In Orlais, she was an upstart, thought by many to be an imposter and if not that, at the very least almost sure to fail. But Corypheus is dead, and she, alive, dressed in a glittering gown which catches and reflects the candlelight flickering in the hundreds of tapers and sconces, and the crowd takes a sharp inhalation of breath as she steps into the ballroom.

Courtiers sweep elegant bows as she passes, and an Orlesian nobleman or two presses her knuckles to their lips as they whisper, “ _enchanté,_ Lady Trevelyan.”

Iron Bull appears at her shoulder, a hulking, muscular shape, and his presence forces the crowd to part a bit more, which she appreciates; it’s hard enough to breathe in this blasted corset contraption as it is, without the press of courtiers trying to gain her eyes and attention.

“Looking good, Boss,” he says, grinning, and he hands her a flute of champagne. She can’t help but laugh at how absurd the delicate glass looks in his monstrously huge hand; it is a far cry from a Qunari battleaxe or greatsword. She wants to find Cullen, since with his luck he’s stuck entertaining a gaggle of women (and men) hoping to bed him, and with the champagne making her lips tingle she really wants a kiss, in front of their various admirers if at all possible. Unfortunately, diplomacy comes first.

Leliana sidles in as Iron Bull departs in search of a stronger drink.

“How are you feeling, Inquisitor?” she asks, smiling. “Are you ready to play a little more of the Game?”

Trevelyan laughs. “Oh, I hope it’s an easier game tonight!”

“Well,” the Spymaster replies, placing her hand on top of the Inquisitor’s, “it should be, but you need to formally meet the King and Queen.”

“But,” Trevelyan starts, casting her eyes around the crowds for Cullen, and Leliana’a lips quirk in a small smile.

“Don’t fret! Your dashing commander is here and waiting for you, but first you must at least say hello! The Queen in particular wishes to thank you for your service.”

As they move through the milling crowds, the Inquisitor spies Varric standing atop a chair so that the people around him can hear his voice as he recounts the final battle at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

“And then _wham!_ Cassandra’s war axe split the Revenant in two, and the Inquisitor was face to face with the terrible demon, Corypheus…”

Leliana rolls her eyes as she continues pulling Trevelyan through the crowd, until they reach the trestle table where the Queen sits. When she sees Leliana and the Inquisitor approaching, the monarch stands, her gown of Fereldan garnet and gold swirling around her feet.

Inquisitor Trevelyan sweeps a deep curtsy, murmuring “a pleasure to meet you, your majesty.”

The Fereldan queen smiles widely and lifts the Inquisitor out of the curtsy with her own hands, laughing, “Nonsense! I’ll have no bowing and simpering from you, Lady Trevelyan! I get enough of that in Denerim. Leliana, didn’t you tell her I have no patience for such things?”

The spymaster smiles.

“It must have slipped my mind.”

The Queen chuckles. “It slipped your mind, and I’m the pirate queen of Antiva.”

“Give it time, my love,” says Alistair, approaching with a plate heavily laden with Orlesian and Fereldan cheeses. “Commander of the Grey, Queen of Ferelden? Antiva must be next.”

“And then Orlais, my dearest? Will you be telling Empress Celene of my ascension to her throne?”

“Perish the thought! She’d have me poisoned before I made it out of the Winter Palace.”

Turning back to the Inquisitor, the Queen says, “About that, Inquisitor. I must thank you for your aid in the talks between Orlais and Ferelden. My husband is many wonderful things, but a diplomat is not one of them.”

Through a mouthful of cheese, Alistair says, “That’s why you love me!”

Elissa kisses his cheek and says, “I really, really do. And so will the nug.”

Trevelyan feels her eyebrows raise.

“The nug?”

Alistair grins and places a hand over his wife’s belly.

“We’re calling it the nug. I mean, they _are_ kind of nug-like, at first. Pink and wrinkly.”

His wife swats his hand away. “It’s a _baby_ , Alistair, not a rodent. And it’s kicking like a Mabari at present.”

Leliana’s eyes go wide and she presses a hand to the Queen’s stomach.

Alistair locks eyes with the Inquisitor and mouths, smiling, ‘nug’.

* * *

“Cully-Wully, pop a squat!”

Sera must have seen Cullen’s look of confusion as she continues a mile a minute, “Take some chair? Grip some wood? For fuck’s sake, _sit down_!”

He takes a seat across from Iron Bull and the Dalish girl, the latter of whom pushes a ceramic mug across the tabletop. Cullen’s already on his fourth (fifth?) glass of wine after two of champagne, and he can’t help the way his nose wrinkles at the stinking brew.

“What is this?”

“Maraas Lok!” Iron Bull roars, pounding his mug on the table, “put some chest on your chest!”

Sera giggles and takes a gulp. “Don’ need any help in that department, thanks.”

Her eyes go wicked and she continues, “and neither does your lady, Commander. The dress! The arse! Those jumblies!”

Cullen waves a servant over and takes another glass of wine, from which he takes a large gulp before grinding out, “her…jumblies?”

Iron Bull’s laugh is almost as loud as the band. “Armor fillers! Fun bags! _Tits_!”

“Man, if she were in to women…” Sera says dreamily, kicking her feet up onto the table, “I would go down more often than a Grey Warden in the Deep Roads.”

And Cullen is choking on his wine as she picks up a peach from the bowl of fruit in the center of the table and thrusts it in his face.

“You need pointers, Chantry boy? Now pretend this part is the-”

“Andraste’s knickers, _why_?”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Takes a woman to know a woman, is all I’m saying. Bull! Pass me the Maraas Lok!”

The Qunari does, refilling the Dalish girl’s cup and taking the one Cullen refuses to drink.

“Don’t mind the twerp,” he says, gulping down the acrid liquor, “she’s new to Qunari drinking and her tongue’s a little loose.”

Sera squeals “pointed tongues do more than loose ones!” and, using her fingers and her mouth, she manages to pantomime some…fairly obscene past times.

Iron Bull roars in laughter and claps her on the back.

“Now, now, Sera, don’t scare off the Commander with your weird sex ideas. Not everyone can make the ladies scream like _we_ do.”

“When,” Cullen grumbles, “did everyone decide that discussing my relationship with the Inquisitor is the most fun one can have with smallclothes on?”

“The best part of any relationship is when you _don’t_ have smallclothes on!” Sera screeches, swaying heavily as she stands from the table.

“Now,” she says, poking a crooked finger square in Cullen’s chest as the smell of Qunari liquor wafts through the air around him, “whatchu gotta do is – _hic_ \- take the Inquissy somewhere good and private, or not – _hic_ \- I don’t know what you’re into, do I? And you take control, Commander Fancy-Pants! - _Hic_ \- You ruck those pretty skirts of hers up and you…Go. – _hic-_ To. – _hic_ \- Town!”

At this point, Cullen is relatively sure his face can’t _go_ any redder, though he’s also finding the idea that Sera is proposing ever more appealing as his cup empties. A small hand grips his and he looks down, startled, to find his nephew, Thomas staring up at him, his mouth full of Orlesian pastry. His curls, darker than Cullen’s, are unruly and his eyes are wide. The little boy tugs again, more insistently, and whispers something.

Cullen blanches, but plows ahead anyway. He never could deny the boy.

“Iron Bull?”

The Qunari lets loose a massive belch. “Yeah?”

“…my nephew would like to touch your horns.”

* * *

If one more Orlesian noble kisses her hand she is going to _scream_. Leaving Leliana with the Queen of Fereldan (the king has gone in search of more cheese, and Trevelyan is so grateful for Josephine having doubled the order), she holds her skirts in one hand and tries to spot Cullen in the crowd. Silks and satins and brocades in sparkling hues dazzle the eye, and the Great Hall seems a menagerie of rare birds or butterflies.

And there he is, across the dancefloor beneath the great rose window. Gone is the cape and the furred ruff around his neck, gone is the platemail and sword belt (though she knows he has it stashed beneath the throne, since that is where she put hers, too. Can’t be too careful). Cullen wears a coat the color of night sky, and she can’t help the way her eyes rake over his broad shoulders, his trim hips accentuated by the golden belt at his waist, the defined muscles of his thighs in the impeccably tailored trousers rising above his boots.

And then their eyes meet, and she is lost. She has seen his amber eyes narrow in anger, widen in fear, close in sleep. She has kissed his lids as he moves over her, around her, inside her. In their depths she has found hope, comfort, peace, and in them now she _burns_.

He is looking at her as if she is Andraste herself, but even that is not sufficient to describe the fire, the ardency, the _need_ that boils in his eyes and that answers in her belly. He looks at her as if he has never truly seen her before, as if he will never see her again, and she can just barely make out his lips moving, forming the shape of her name and the scar there goes white and she knows the taste of his skin in that spot, knows the rasp of his stubble beneath her thumb, beneath her lips.

He takes a step, then two, towards her, and she towards him, and in her blood, fizzing with champagne and pounding with desire, she knows her pulse speaks his name.

People are surging around her as she pushes through, ducks under their arms, slips between them and each step takes her closer to _him_ and the Grand Hall goes fuzzy in the edges of her vision; he is all she sees, moving towards her as she moves towards him, as the people dancing become nothing more than shadows and –

And she sees those eyes widen in panic and his lips forming the words “oh no” and her sword is across the hall, but _surely_ Cullen can make it, and Bull would probably love a fight (when does he not?). Is it leftover Venatori? An assassin? The Qunari taking revenge for their sunken dreadnought on the Wounded Coast?

And a hand closes on her elbow, and Cullen’s face is stricken as he pushes his way through the crowd towards her and then Trevelyan’s eyes meet those of the person standing to her right, the person whose arm is now entwined with hers and she hears, “So, Inquisitor, my brother has not told me _nearly_ enough about you…”

She smiles.

Mia.

And indeed it is, with her hair darker than Cullen’s, but curling at her shoulders, and a little boy with legs just starting to lose the fat of infancy on her hip.

“Mia, I presume?”

The other woman grins and says, “You presume correctly. And this-” she juts out the hip with the toddler perched upon it, “is Garrett. Thomas is around here somewhere, probably getting into trouble.”

And Cullen arrives, panting, “Ah, Mia, I-” and his sister says, “good, you’re here! Take Garrett for me will, you?” and then Cullen’s arms are full of squirming toddler and Mia sweeps Trevelyan past him. The Inquisitor turns her head back over her shoulder, wondering why spending time with her dashing, lovely, absolutely amazing Commander is proving so Maker-damned _difficult_ tonight, and sees him holding his littlest nephew against his chest, his eyes following hers, and the sight of it makes her insides clench and heat suffuse her limbs and cheeks.

“Now, tell me. How did things between you and Cullen start?”

What? Oh, right, Mia. Trevelyan turns back to her, says, “Sorry. I was distracted. Would you mind repeating that?”

The eyes that are so like Cullen’s sparkle with mirth and she repeats the question, continuing, “Cullen was always rather shy around the fairer sex. Did you have to put it in writing? ‘I like you, do you like me, check yes, no, maybe’?”

Trevelyan laughs. “Nothing so interesting as that, I’m afraid. It just sort of…happened, I suppose.”

“Psh,” and Mia rolls her eyes. “I am confident that you are leaving things out.”

“Well, I asked him about his Templar vows once, whether or not they swore to maintain chastity. I guess that probably started the ball rolling.”

“I bet he blushed. Oh _please_ tell me he blushed.”

“No blushing that I recall, but he _was_ quite flustered. I thought it was adorable, but I wasn’t really entertaining ideas of anything real. Neither one of us expected to live through this, to be frank.”

“But?” Mia says as she hands the Inquisitor a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and takes one for herself.

“But despite ourselves, he and I ended up…well, I’m sure Cullen has told you.”

Mia laughs. “Hardly! But he used your name in a letter once, instead of your title, so I knew it was serious. I’m expecting a wedding within the year. Oh, and children. Mine need cousins.”

She laughs when Trevelyan chokes a little on her champagne and then Cullen is beside them, Garrett squirming in his arms and Thomas trailing behind, a smear of chocolate on his cheek.

Mia smiles at her brother’s long-suffering sigh and says, “Now I think my dear brother will never forgive me if I don’t let you go. I hope to speak with you again before we go back to Honnleath.”

“Of course. Now, Commander, will you favor me with a dance?”

He smiles, sunbright.

“As you wish.”

* * *

“My love, I have been looking forward to this all night,” Cullen whispers when they stand in the center of the dancefloor, bringing her hand to his lips, and she shivers as his breath ghosts over her knuckles.

“ _You_ , looking forward to a dance?”

He places a hand at her waist, the curve exaggerated by the corset; without his gloves he can just barely feel the ridges of the boning beneath his palm. Their other hands meet to the side of their bodies, and her eyes are sparkling and her cheeks are flushed and he knows he is risking making a fool of himself, touching her when all he can think of is _garters_ and getting her out of her dress and the _need_ which is slowly threatening to burn him alive.

The band begins.

With a rustle of silk and taffeta the pairs start to move. Dorian sails by with Josephine, who is laughing; Iron Bull has Sera clutched to his chest with one arm, and the Dalish girl’s legs are swinging free in the air as they spin (Maraas Lok, never again, he thinks).

“You look so handsome,” the Inquisitor murmurs as they turn.

“You look…Maker, I don’t have the words for how you look,” he replies.

Her hand at his shoulder tightens and she is suddenly closer to him, her fingers playing across the nape of his neck. He is ensconced in her scent and desire sparks hot in his chest, shooting down, and thank the Maker they are in motion.

“I feel rather foolish,” she says, as they part long enough for her to twirl, her skirts flaring, “I haven’t worn anything like this before. But the look in your eyes when you saw me…”

She flushes.

“…well. It made it worth it, in any case.”

And the music changes but he doesn’t let her go; rather, he presses his lips against the shell of her ear and whispers, “my eyes are the _least_ affected part of me, dearest.”

She leans back, just enough to meet his gaze. Her movement allows him to admire again the full arc of her throat, the delicate lines of her collarbones, and the absolutely breathtaking sweep of pale skin, swelling to meet the dipping neckline of her gown. It is all he can do not to bury his lips there, where the glittering fabric gives way to the curve of her breast. It is _torture_ not to lick a curving path from where her pulse leaps down to the hollow between her breasts and down and _down…_

She clears her throat, which draws his eyes back to her face. Her eyes are sparkling with mirth and brighter than the diamonds dangling from her ears as she murmurs, “see something you like, love?”

It might be the champagne, or the wine, or just how breathtaking she looks but he tightens his arm around her waist and hauls her against his chest. Pressing his mouth to her ear he whispers, “I see something I _will_ have before this evening ends, milady.”

For the briefest moment he wonders if she will shy away, or if she will take his bait, play his game. Her tongue darts out to sweep across her lower lip, and she replies lightly, “oh? What of our guests, Commander?”

“Hang the guests.”

“Well, _that_ would certainly put a damper on the party.”

He chuckles, and her eyes flick to his mouth. Bending at the waist, his lips meet hers lightly and all-too-briefly, and when he pulls back she follows his mouth with hers before they part. His eyes twinkle when her brow furrows in disappointment at the sudden distance between their mouths, and he uses her words, “see something you like?”

“Very much. Now dip me.”

So he does.

* * *

When Cullen’s arm around her waist slackens enough to let her body fall into the dip, his other grips the nape of her neck, and for a moment she _falls_ but without fear. _He will always catch her_ , she knows, and then he is pulling her up and against the solid planes of his chest. She meets the hard expanse of his torso with more grace than she thought she possessed, and even through the fabric of her skirts she can feel the heat of him, insistent against her. A slower dance starts, a stately Orlesian one, and over Cullen’s shoulder she spies Blackwall bowing low before Josephine, who accepts his hand, and Cassandra dancing with Varric. They continue to move and she whispers, “didn’t you see Josephine’s notice about no weapons in the hall?”

“Milady?”

With palms pressed together they circle each other and she replies, eyes darting down to his groin, “well, it seems you have quite the sword with you.”

They part when the music requires it, she to Dorian and her lover to Cassandra. The pairs circle, and Dorian grins and whispers, “winding up your man, my dear?”

She smiles.

“Perhaps.”

He winks as they proceed and murmurs, “Well, if his eyes on you are any indication, you’re doing quite well. He is lucky I’m not a lover of women, considering how beautiful you look tonight. And I am not the only one,” he continues as he dips her (more gracefully than Cullen, she is sorry to say; Dorian has more experience on the dancefloor); “I’ve marked ten plus nobles looking to bed you, and at least five have made official offers of marriage. I’m so proud.”

His hand is between her shoulder blades and she grins and tightens an arm around his waist as they spin; who could have guessed she would find such a dear friend amid all this chaos?

“My mother would _die,_ ” she whispers as they process in a stately manner between the parted pairs, and the weight of Cullen’s eyes is hot against her skin as she murmurs to Dorian, “I was always the least lovely of her daughters.”

His hand on hers tightens as they turn and he says, “No accounting for taste, my dear.”

And they are back face to face and she whispers, “I plan on undoing him tonight.”

He winks. “Darling, I already _know_. Leliana and I have been winding him up all evening, and Sera got into the Maraas Lok and said some fairly raunchy things, and he’s tight as a spring. Just a little more, and he’ll have you against the wall. You’re welcome, by the way. I expect to be best man in the wedding.”  

And they spin and part, and the women move in the middle of the dance floor in small circles (close enough and long enough that she steals another swig from Cassandra’s flask) as the men bow low, and then she is back in Cullen’s arms, moving slowly.

“You mentioned my sword, dearest.”

His eyes are smoldering, molten hot, and she shivers as his palm drags along her back, calluses rasping over the silk, pulling her against him.

“I did, Commander. To bring it to such an august occasion is most uncivilized.”

He chuckles.

“My sincere apologies, Lady Trevelyan. I suppose I must find an appropriate sheathe for it. Might you know where I could procure one?”

“I suppose I would, though it might be a tight fit.”

His hand on her bare back drops lower to the base of her spine and pulls fast, pressing her against the hard planes of his chest.

His voice is low. “ _So_ tight, my love.”

Daintily she replies, “I have yet to find a sword I cannot wield effectively. Though your sword is certainly formidable, I think I could accommodate it.”

His voice is a deep growl, and she feels its reverberations ripple through her. “You are playing a dangerous game. I hope you are prepared for the consequences.”

She smiles at the coiled tension in his body, at the flush creeping above the collar of his jacket and the roiling heat in his amber eyes and she leans into him as they turn, presses her lips to the shell of his ear and whispers, “Imagine it, my Commander. My lips on you, so hot and so wet, taking your length in my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat, swallowing your seed.”

A shudder runs through his body. Her hand pressed lightly against his chest drops between them, and she brushes her fingertips gingerly over his groin on her way to grab her skirts for a twirl. She marks how his eyes flash at the touch, his soft groan, and he grasps her hand in his own larger one, holding it out to the side. Cullen’s eyes are dangerous and the people moving around them melt away, bleeding to the edges of her vision until all she can see are his full lips moving, the white line of the scar above his lip pulling tight.

“And you think I will leave you unfulfilled?” Cullen murmurs, “Imagine it, love. My cock within you, the sweet drag of my hands against your skin, my mouth against your breast. I will make you scream my name, my heart, scream it so loud that no one will doubt who it is that marks your body in such a way, who is it that brings you such pleasure.”

The deep timbre of his voice pours through her like water, and her legs are suddenly weak. She thanks the Maker for Cullen’s arm around her waist, iron hard and holding her upright as she stifles a soft moan. Around them the other dancers have swapped partners, but she stays with her commander, her right hand in his and her left draped around his neck.

Champagne and desire buzz in her veins, and she is suddenly exquisitely aware of how her breasts press against the fabric of her dress, the drag of her nipples against the boning of the corset, how she throbs and her smalls are damp. She never expected to find a game so…stimulating, speaking such words to each other in a room full of people. But she is no quitter, and the sparking heat in Cullen’s eyes drives her on.

“Promises, promises,” she replies, and his gaze is scalding.

“You doubt me?”

“Will you punish me for my impertinence? Put me on my knees?”

His hand tightens around hers, and the one at her waist drops to the curve of her ass and forces her closer, where she can feel his cock pressing hard and hot. Heat sparks from her core and she bites her lip to keep from moaning.

“Do you see what your words do to me, love? How hard they make me? You should not tease me if you are not willing to accept the consequences.”

She leans towards him, lips parted, and she hears his breath hitch in his throat as she brushes her mouth against his, gingerly. His lips taste of wine. She will play his game; she desires his hands on every part of her. They aren’t even dancing any more.

“ _Prove it_ ,” she whispers, and he pulls her off the dance floor.


	4. Chapter Four

"Chapter Four"

The air of the garden is crisp with the approaching winter and a few autumn leaves crunch under his booted heel, but the fire in Cullen is blazing hot enough to warm a world as he pulls the Inquisitor across the courtyard. The garden is blessedly empty, with only the songs of a few nightbirds disrupting the stillness before he reaches the door of the chantry chapel and wrenches it open.

A serving girl and a guard are inside, kissing, and they fly apart like someone has cast force magic between them. The girl, with her bodice loose and her hair mussed, titters nervously before brushing past them, murmuring about checking on the stores of incense. The guard – and here Cullen notices that _of course_ it is the guard from that day on the battlements, James? Jim? –he is looking at the Commander agog, barely forcing out a “Ser?”

“Get. _Out_.” He growls, and the man flees, leaving them alone in the room, with only the flickering candlelight and the twining smoke from the incense burners in the air.

And then Cullen has the Inquisitor’s spine pressed flat against the door as his mouth slants over hers. She grips the fabric of his lapels as his hands press to the wood on either side of her head. He draws her full lower lip between his teeth and her mouth parts as he exhales, gusting, through his nose. She tastes of Orlesian champagne and temptation and he is blind with the need of it. One hand drops to wrap around the curve of her waist and pull her flush against him as the other cradles the back of her head, anchors her lips to his. He strokes her tongue with his own and she sags against him –

Before he draws back, quick as a shot, and spins her around so her cheek is pressed to the wood of the door.

“Cullen,” she begins, her voice questioning, and he covers her smaller frame with his own, pressing her hands over her head.

“Shh,” he whispers. He keeps her wrists trapped between his fingers and with the other hand he plucks her glittering earrings away, deposits them in his pockets. Then he loosens the diamond pins in her hair, letting the curls which smell of roses and Antivan sandalwood tumble loose and against her back as he pulls each shining jewel free. Cullen lifts the fragrant weight of her hair away with the hand not pressing hers against the door, and clutches her tresses almost too hard as he growls, “Dorian mentioned that you may not be _satisfied_.”

Her breaths are coming in hard, short pants and he notes how her breasts strain against the edges of her dress, how if she craned _just a little more_ they would spill out and free into the night air, and she impertinently rubs the curve of her ass against him before he pulls the hand in her hair fast, baring the curve of her neck to his lips as he grazes his teeth against the soft flesh there, his stubble rasping over her tender skin. His teeth sink a little harder than he intends where her neck meets her shoulder, and the noise of pleasure she makes at his boldness sends heat arcing straight to his groin.

“Oh, Cullen,” she sighs, and he cups the curve of her rear and squeezes, hard.

“You think you can tease me without punishment, love? Think you can make promises that your mouth cannot keep?” He rucks the outer layer of her skirt up, pulls back, and flattens his palm before he brings it back to the soft curve of her rear, hard. The sound of his hand against her flesh, even through her petticoats, is almost as delicious as her gasp when she moans, “ah, sweet Maker. Again, please.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” he replies, tongue drawing her earlobe into the wet heat of his mouth as he smacks her rear again, harder, one, twice, and three times, and when she jumps and sighs out, “Andraste’s ashes I’m so _wet_ ,” he thinks he might have died and gone to the Golden city.

“You will not take your pleasure yet, my love. I recall you saying something,” he growls against her throat, and gods and goddesses above, her body is so yielding, so languid, when his hand drags from her hair down her back to twist in the laces of her gown, to pull her closer, her is skin so sweet as he edges his teeth along the nape of her neck, breathing “something about your mouth…”

And she whispers, “ _yes_ ,” before his hands are on the arc of her waist, curving so beautifully in her corset, as he maneuvers her so that her back is pressed to the grain of the wood. It takes only a gentle push downward for her to respond, to lower herself to the flagstones, skirts pressing against the carpet as Cullen moves to fill her vision. Her hands now released from his grip, she grasps the edges of his trousers between her fingers, peeling them slowly down along with his smalls, and he revels in the white-hot heat of her gaze when she looks up at him between her lashes.

Cullen thinks he will go up in flames as the air of the chantry chapel hits his overwarm skin, as the soft cloud of her breath caresses the flesh she reveals between the hem of his shirt and his trousers as she slowly pulls the fabric down his thighs. And his cock is out, free, hard and aching for release, and he needs her touch on him more than he needs air. She wraps her hands around the backs of his knees for a moment, and when her eyes meet his they are pools of heat, so hot and so deep he thinks he might drown. Slowly, deliberately, she wraps her hand around the base of his cock, and the cool feeling of her palm against his overheated flesh is _torture_.

“Love,” he chokes out, suddenly desperate to draw lines before they cross the point of no return, “you don’t have to…we can…if we keep going, I won’t be able to stop.”

Her voice is silk as she runs her thumb lightly over the tip of his cock, replying, “Foolish man. If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t have wound you so tight.”

She pulls gently, and he steps closer. She slowly, _oh so slowly_ , draws the flat of her tongue against the place where his hip presses up against the skin, grazing her teeth gently there where the bone lies shallowly beneath his pale flesh. Kissing the pink mark of her mouth, she continues, “The word is ‘phylactery’; until I say it, I want all of this, your hands on me. I make important decisions all day long, but for tonight, for always, I am yours. _Use me_ , my love.”

Her eyes spark, hard and glittering as she continues, “now if I recall, I made a promise my lips must keep, and I am a woman of my word.”

And he twines his clever fingers in her tresses and her lips part, and she licks her way from the base of his cock to the head, swirling her tongue against the slit there where his pleasure gathers in a pearlescent bead. She parts her lips just enough to suck the tip of him into the wet heat of her mouth before withdrawing, whispering, “oh _yes_ , love.”

Trevelyan draws him between her lips and back, taking him a bit deeper each time, and her hands at his knees drag up the skin of his thighs to grip his ass, to press him closer into the divine, tight heat of her mouth and it is all he can do not to thrust hard into her, to let her fulfill the promise of swallowing his need whole. She is making the most divine noises of contentment in the back of her throat, the sounds she makes when she is enjoying a Fereldan honey cake, like he is _delicious_ and _desirable_ and as she pulls back so that she can lick the sensitive head again she groans out, “oh yes, my love, my dearest love, I need you…”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he manages between gritted teeth, pressing his forehead, now damp with sweat, against the wood of the chantry door. “I want to- I need-”

He sees the column of her throat constrict then, swallowing and suddenly it is _so tight_ and need is blooming at the base of his cock and her nails are pricking at his skin and _sweet Maker_ her other hand is cupping his balls, pressing gently and _oh fuck_

And he is shaking, coming undone, as his hips piston into the warmth of her mouth and his hands buried in her hair anchor her head against him as he moves, stuttering, as she swallows him. And he is softening, now, spent, but still in the heat of her mouth. He tightens his grip in her hair and pulls _up_ and his cock slips from between her lips as she rises from the floor.

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s fingers in her hair loosen when she stands, still pinned between his body and the chantry door, and he cups her face in his callused palms. Sweeping his thumb over her lips, he whispers, “good girl,” and the Inquisitor presses her thighs together, seeking some relief for the aching throb at the juncture of her legs.

“But,” he murmurs against her skin as he slowly drags his hand up the curve of her waist, and she tries not to whine when he bypasses her breasts, “I don’t think you’ve fully made up for your behavior in the ball, dearest. It will take more than my cock in your mouth to get back in my good graces.”

Maker, the man is _sin_ and his voice is _torture_ and she bows her back against the door, presses her chest into the darkened air. If she could just have her breasts free- the rasp of the fabric, the press of the boning has her so _tight_ and they could so _easily_ spill out-

But Cullen puts a hand to her belly and _pushes_ and she is flat against the door again, chest heaving as he growls, “Such wanton behavior, darling. Don’t you recall that this type of conduct is how you got into such a mess in the first place?”

“Yes,” she breathes, lips parted softly, “ _yes_.”

She is standing there pressed to the grain of the wood as he steps back, pulling up his smalls and trousers from around his knees, making himself presentable. When he is fully dressed again, not a curl out of place, he steps closer, and she can’t help the way her breath hitches as he leans into her, as his lips ghost over her throat, as he licks the purplish mark blooming at the juncture of her shoulder and her neck.

“Think of it, love,” he murmurs, his breath hot against her ear as he speaks, and she can feel gooseflesh rising unbidden over her skin, “think of all the noblemen in the ball whose eyes rest so heavily on you. What will they say when they see the bite on your throat?”

She is playing with fire, she knows, but like Andraste herself, fire is her water, and Maker help her she _loves_ his power, the way he moves like a lion stalking its prey, and she wants _more_.

“Five of them have made formal proposals of marriage,” she whispers, and thrills at how his body goes rigid and angry.

His hand presses her between the door and his fury, and his voice is stern. “Marriage?”

Cullen laughs harshly and desire unspools low in her as he says, “They propose marriage to one they do not know. Would they believe that just this evening the lovely, noble-born Lady Inquisitor took my cock in her mouth? That like a wanton you swallowed my seed in an empty chantry?”

His hand splays against her, fingertips ghosting over the edge of the gown where her breasts threaten to spill. “Would they believe how beautifully you beg for me to be inside you? How completely I’ve plundered every place where your pleasure lives?”

He drags his hand up, and she bites her lips not to moan in disappointment when he does not touch her breasts, and he ghosts his fingertips over the bruise at her throat and whispers, “could they do what I do to you, love? Even now, you are so _close_ to release. I can see it; tight as a drawn bow and ready to snap, and I am not even touching you. Tell me.”

“Maker _yes_ ,” she breathes, and with his fingertips splayed against the nape of her neck he presses his thumb against the mark of his mouth. Her legs go weak, but he catches her around the waist when she falls.

Laughing, Cullen turns her against the hard planes of his body, so her spine is pressed against his chest and his mouth is hot and open against the back of her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin when he whispers, “Are you wet, love? _Aching_?”

“Yes, Cullen,” she replies, and blessedly, finally, the hand of his arm not around her waist dips beneath the neckline of her gown, pressing her closer to him as he squeezes a breast in his palm.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, lips moving against her skin, “touch yourself and tell me how it feels, what you want.”

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathes, clutching her skirts and hauling the fabric up to her waist, and he takes the bunched silk beneath his arm. His hand at her breast teases her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and when she gasps he chuckles darkly.

Trembling, she slips a hand beneath the delicate Orlesian lace, finding it already drenched with her arousal.

“Speak,” he commands, and she speaks.

“I am so _wet_ , Cullen,” she whispers, parting herself with her fingers as he continues to palm her breast, grazes his teeth against her throat, “I am so very wet for you, and so tight. I need- I need…”

“Shh,” he whispers against her skin, “I know what you need, my love. Press your fingers inside yourself. Slowly.”

She does as he says, and gasps “ _oh_ ” as she tightens around the two digits, as her thumb sweeps against the bundled nerves at the apex of her thighs.

“Tell me,” he says, squeezing her breast.

“It isn’t _enough_ ,” she moans, “your fingers are so much bigger, Cullen, and your _cock_ , oh…”

She can feel him growing hard anew against the curve of her ass, and she wriggles back against the stiff jut of his need, seeking friction and relief.

“I took you for the first time and there will never be another,” he growls. “Tell me you’re mine.”

She is blind with the want of him as she responds instinctively, “yes, only yours, only ever yours, Cullen… _please_ ”

His arm at her waist slackens as he grips her wrist within his fingers. He pulls her hand out of her drenched smalls, and she moans at the emptiness within her before his other hand spins her so she faces him. Cullen’s eyes are a roiling storm of desire and power and she can’t stop herself from shuddering when he draws her fingers, glistening with her need, to his lips.

“This is mine,” he whispers, before he sucks the digits into the hot cavern of his mouth, his tongue laving the skin as he cleans them of her arousal. He keeps her hand encased within his fingers as he moves, maneuvering her away from the door and further into the chantry so she is pressed over the back of a pew. The wood bites into her belly, but even that sensation is wonderful, as starved for his touch as she is.

“Cullen,” she moans, as he takes the wrist in his hand and pairs it with her other wrist behind her back, and his hands are large enough that he can hold her pinned like this with just the one.

“Your beautiful, full breasts, and the way they move when I am deep inside you are mine,” he growls against her ear with his chest pressed close against her spine, “the tight, wet heat of your cunt is mine, and the way you tremble when you come.”

She nods her head vigorously, desperately, and she just _knows_ she will come apart if he doesn’t touch her soon. She will _burn_ until all that is left is ashes and she is vaguely aware that she is speaking, babbling, “yes, Cullen, yes, all yours, _please_ …”

He is moving behind her, and his hand skims up the backs of her legs as he pulls her skirts up to bunch around her waist. The calluses on his palms rasp on the silk of her stockings, his hand finally cups the curve of her rear, and his sigh is _beautiful_.

Cullen draws taut the thin pieces of ribbon holding her stockings up and releases them, and the snap against her flesh is _perfection_ and then his fingers are untying the laces at the sides of her ornate Orlesian smalls, and the drenched fabric parts and she is bare to the night air of the chantry.

“ _Cullen_.”

 

* * *

 

“Maker you are so _wet_ ,” Cullen whispers, and he sees her tremble at the ghost of his breath against her skin. Such great and beautiful power here, he thinks. He has her bent over a pew in an empty chapel, aching for him, and he wants her undone.

His fingers brush over her, and she arcs hard against the wood. She is close, and it would be so simple, so easy, to forego control, to unmake her. But she has been teasing him all evening, and he is no quitter.

“Beg me,” he whispers, and when his exhalation hits her exquisitely sensitive skin she tosses her head.

“Cullen, please. Please _touch me_ I need you to, I need-”

He presses his lips to her core, and she shakes as he draws his flattened tongue roughly from her pearl back towards her entrance. The thumb of his free hand circles her clit as he dives within her heat, and she is _close._ He presses his tongue against her and she gasps, bucking hard and back against him, seeking to draw him further within.

But he swats her bare behind at her impertinence and withdraws from her tight warmth, rocking back onto his heels, and she almost _sobs_.

“ _Please_ Cullen…”

“My dearest love,” he whispers against her flesh, pressing hot, open mouthed kisses to the tops of her thighs, to the dimples at the base of her spine, “tell me what you need.”

Her arms within his grip flex and she moans, “fuck me, Cullen. Fuck me hard and fast and don’t stop.”

He releases her wrists then, and fumbles with his trousers and smalls, pushing them just far enough down his thighs for his cock to spring free, and he presses his length against her slit, not entering, and she whimpers.

“Say ‘please’,” he whispers.

The word on her lips is holier than any prayer.

“ _Please_ ”

He surges forward, hilting himself within her so deeply he thinks he might die. She screams, and she is coming, so hot and so wet and rippling around his length, her whole body shaking and her nails scrabbling against the wood of the pew, seeking purchase.

Cullen doesn’t stop, drawing back and plunging back in, hard, and she presses back against him as he moves, gasping “ _more_ , Cullen.”

He folds his upper body over hers, his chest to her back, and he lifts her breasts out and over the neckline of her dress, pinches the peaks, rolls them between his fingers as his hips snap hard against hers, and she reaches behind to grip his rear, to pull him deeper within her.

“Is this what you want?” he growls against the nape of her neck, and she sobs out “ _yes._ ”

Her breasts are heavy in his hands and his grip is almost too hard but she is keening and so blissfully tight and wet and his whole body is alive with sparks and need forming at the base of his cock as she says, “please fill me, Cullen, please _please_ I want you in me, _all of you_ I want to be yours, I want to bear your child…”

And something primal, something even more base and even more true and undeniably _male_ is unlocked in him at her words and he winds his fingers in her tresses and hauls her up against his chest, grazes his teeth over the darkening purple rose at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and he is pounding, rutting into her as he groans, “Maker yes. _Yes._ I want you filled with me, and my seed planted and your belly swelling with our child and no one will doubt to whom you belong. _Fuck_.”

He releases her hair and she twines her arms back around his neck as his hips rut desperately into her heat. Cullen grips her hip bruisingly hard in one hand, and with the other he works the place at the jointure of her legs, where she is so very slick and warm, where he knows she needs him most.

And she is chanting, “yes yes _yes_ ” and then she bites down on her full lower lip, hard, and suddenly her sheathe is almost _painfully_ tight, clenching around the length of his cock as she sobs his name, back bowing and her breasts pressing out into the dim light of the chantry and the only thing Cullen can think before his vision goes dark at the edges is _mine_.

His hips stutter against hers as she goes limp in his arms, bent over the back of the pew again as he sinks his fingertips into her skin and presses himself as deep within her as he can manage before he, too, comes undone, and she sighs in pleasure.

She is breathing hard, and he is as well, gulping in lungfuls of air that smell of sex and chantry incense as he softens within her. She sighs when he slips out, and Cullen’s cock twitches at the sight of their mingled arousal on her thighs.

He picks up the scrap of Orlesian lace which forms her smalls from the floor and cleans her skin, reverently, worshipfully, kissing the marks he has made on her body, whispering, “my heart, my dearest love,” against her flesh.

And he tucks himself back into his trousers and straightens his coat as she readjusts her corset and gown, her breasts now hidden from his gaze. There is no help for either of their hair, he knows; his curls are unruly with their exertions, and it took Vivienne and Leliana working in concert to get Trevelyan’s hair done for the ball.

Her lips are kiss-swollen and soft as he brushes his mouth against hers, as he holds her in his arms.

“Was I too rough?” he asks, and her fingers dance against the nape of his neck.

“Maker _no_ ,” she says, smiling. “That was _fantastic_.”

He grins and kisses her forehead, whispering against her skin, “Did you mean what you said? About a child?”

She stretches up to capture his lips with hers and then says, “I did. I love you. I want to have your child. And if your nephews are any indication, Rutherfords make beautiful babies.”

“You’ve clearly never tried to put Thomas down for a nap.”

She laughs as his fingers flutter over the mark on her neck, and he says apologetically, “I don’t think there’s much we can do for this, love.”

Her shoulders rise and fall in a careless shrug as she replies, “let them see, let them know. If nothing else, it should cut down on the unsolicited proposals.”

He laughs and gently kisses the purplish bruise before they return to the ball.

As the evening goes on Dorian congratulates Cullen for the glow he’s put on the Inquisitor’s cheeks, Josephine is positively _scandalized_ at the mark on the Trevelyan’s neck, and Varric agrees not to include it in his book only under threats of violence. Leliana laughs and thanks him for not destroying the dress, though it will need a deep clean, and Mia seems to know far too much for her own good already.

Later, as Cullen and the Inquisitor lie in their bed and the shouts of Iron Bull and Sera, who are _still_ drinking, drift up from the Great Hall, she curls into his side and says, “This evening has helped me come to a decision.”

With eyes closed and an arm around her, he sleepily murmurs, “mmm?”

“We’re eloping.”

He knows his grin threatens to split his face in half as he kisses her.

“As my lady wishes.”

-FIN-

Review/leave kudos, please. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and comments make my day.


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